progress, made me pedal harder than I would have liked, and, despite the comfortable night-time temperature, caused me to perspire lightly. I found that annoying.
I pulled up to Jeff’s quarters, and after several failed attempts at deploying the kickstand, I cursed at the inanimate bicycle and threw it over onto its side as if to teach it a lesson. I looked around to see if anyone had seen.
I started for the front door when I was startled by the sound of someone coming through the bushes.
“Oh! I almost slipped,” the person grunted to no one in particular.
It was Randy, Jeff’s neighbor, and easily the most obnoxious person I had ever known.
I hurried up the sidewalk in an effort to avoid catching his attention. Randy was what we called “fluff” or an unemployed spouse on Kwaj. There was a lot of fluff on the island, but since most were women raising children, no one looked down on them. But a man who lived off the labors of his wife, especially an older, childless one like Randy, was widely disliked. This fact, however, had little to do with why no one liked Randy.
Dressed in a shiny, new jogging suit that was at least one size too small, he ran over and intercepted me on my way to the door.
“Did you see that? I almost slipped,” Randy said.
“Technically, you did slip,” I said, as Randy straightened his hair.
“What?”
He frowned and threw me a puzzled look. Even in the dark, his mustache looked fake, and his facelifts were noticeable. That’s what happens when an aging man tries to hold onto the only asset he had ever possessed—looks—even though it drained away naturally decades prior.
“Didn’t you actually slip on those wet leaves?” I pressed.
“Yeah,” he smirked.
“Then you didn’t almost slip. You did slip. What you almost did was fall.”
“Whatever!” Randy said, which was how he put an end to any conversation he didn’t understand—the percentage of which was likely large.
“I’m in a hurry,” I continued.
“At this hour?”
“I’ll see you later, Randy.”
Ever the pest, Randy took a step with me and put out his hand to block my way. “Hey, one more thing. Have you heard anything about the weather lately? I’m going fishing tomorrow.”
I could have ignored him and forced my way past, but Randy would just follow, and the last person I wanted around when I talked with Jeff was Randy.
“Randy, I don’t hear about the weather.”
“So what is it supposed to do?” he continued.
I didn’t even try to mask my annoyance any more.
“The weather is not supposed to do any….” I trailed off. “Look, I don’t want to talk about the weather. It will most likely do tomorrow what it does every day out here. How long have you lived here?”
“Well?” he bellered. “Aren’t you a weatherman?”
“I am a me-te-or-ol-o-gist…” I said, pronouncing each syllable slowly for his benefit, “…not a weather- man !”
“I’m just trying to make conversation.”
“It’s going to be mostly sunny with a chance of showers tomorrow,” I bluffed. “Now, do you mind?”
“Whatever,” he said as he turned and jogged off.
I banged on Jeff’s door, but he didn’t answer. I tried the knob, and it was unlocked. Few people locked their doors on Kwaj. I check his quarters, and he wasn’t there. His bed hadn’t even been slept in.
I rode past his office, which was dark, and then I searched the EOC and failed to find him. As a last resort, I thought I’d try the only other place I ever saw him: his boathouse.
Boat owners on Kwaj were allowed to have boathouses near the marina, which theoretically served as shops in which to work on their boats. What they turned into in practice, however, were private lagoon-side villas.
The Riggins’ boathouse was a veritable tropical paradise. It had a prime view, and rows of palm trees on the north and south sides provided ample shade from the intense afternoon sun. The primary
I pulled up to Jeff’s quarters, and after several failed attempts at deploying the kickstand, I cursed at the inanimate bicycle and threw it over onto its side as if to teach it a lesson. I looked around to see if anyone had seen.
I started for the front door when I was startled by the sound of someone coming through the bushes.
“Oh! I almost slipped,” the person grunted to no one in particular.
It was Randy, Jeff’s neighbor, and easily the most obnoxious person I had ever known.
I hurried up the sidewalk in an effort to avoid catching his attention. Randy was what we called “fluff” or an unemployed spouse on Kwaj. There was a lot of fluff on the island, but since most were women raising children, no one looked down on them. But a man who lived off the labors of his wife, especially an older, childless one like Randy, was widely disliked. This fact, however, had little to do with why no one liked Randy.
Dressed in a shiny, new jogging suit that was at least one size too small, he ran over and intercepted me on my way to the door.
“Did you see that? I almost slipped,” Randy said.
“Technically, you did slip,” I said, as Randy straightened his hair.
“What?”
He frowned and threw me a puzzled look. Even in the dark, his mustache looked fake, and his facelifts were noticeable. That’s what happens when an aging man tries to hold onto the only asset he had ever possessed—looks—even though it drained away naturally decades prior.
“Didn’t you actually slip on those wet leaves?” I pressed.
“Yeah,” he smirked.
“Then you didn’t almost slip. You did slip. What you almost did was fall.”
“Whatever!” Randy said, which was how he put an end to any conversation he didn’t understand—the percentage of which was likely large.
“I’m in a hurry,” I continued.
“At this hour?”
“I’ll see you later, Randy.”
Ever the pest, Randy took a step with me and put out his hand to block my way. “Hey, one more thing. Have you heard anything about the weather lately? I’m going fishing tomorrow.”
I could have ignored him and forced my way past, but Randy would just follow, and the last person I wanted around when I talked with Jeff was Randy.
“Randy, I don’t hear about the weather.”
“So what is it supposed to do?” he continued.
I didn’t even try to mask my annoyance any more.
“The weather is not supposed to do any….” I trailed off. “Look, I don’t want to talk about the weather. It will most likely do tomorrow what it does every day out here. How long have you lived here?”
“Well?” he bellered. “Aren’t you a weatherman?”
“I am a me-te-or-ol-o-gist…” I said, pronouncing each syllable slowly for his benefit, “…not a weather- man !”
“I’m just trying to make conversation.”
“It’s going to be mostly sunny with a chance of showers tomorrow,” I bluffed. “Now, do you mind?”
“Whatever,” he said as he turned and jogged off.
I banged on Jeff’s door, but he didn’t answer. I tried the knob, and it was unlocked. Few people locked their doors on Kwaj. I check his quarters, and he wasn’t there. His bed hadn’t even been slept in.
I rode past his office, which was dark, and then I searched the EOC and failed to find him. As a last resort, I thought I’d try the only other place I ever saw him: his boathouse.
Boat owners on Kwaj were allowed to have boathouses near the marina, which theoretically served as shops in which to work on their boats. What they turned into in practice, however, were private lagoon-side villas.
The Riggins’ boathouse was a veritable tropical paradise. It had a prime view, and rows of palm trees on the north and south sides provided ample shade from the intense afternoon sun. The primary
Similar Books
